


From the Author

by Hedgehog-o-Brien (Roshwen)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Also Crowley himself is a perfect gift ssssshhh), Also having feelings is very annoying, Crowley loves making an effort and then pretending he didn't, Edited to fit in my own stupid Librarians headcanon, Fluff, Inspired by a news article, M/M, Rare books are a perfect gift, Romance or Gen is up to you, TW for mentions of Lord Byron, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 18:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Hedgehog-o-Brien
Summary: ‘And what exactly is the occasion, my dear?’ Aziraphale asked. He took the bag to the table, gently setting Vesalius aside, and started unwrapping.Crowley shrugged. And faltered, because while he had planned this particular present perfectly, he had not thought of an excuse to give along with it. It had been a pure Pavlovian response: see something the angel likes > buy the thing the angel likes > give the angel the thing the angel likes > happy angel.Or: Crowley gives Aziraphale a book. This makes Aziraphale happy, which in turn makes Crowley happy, which in turn makes this particular author happy. Life can be so simple, sometimes.





	From the Author

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was inspired by a news article I found online yesterday, in which a first-edition signed copy of Frankenstein was sold at auction for over 350.000 pounds: https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/booknews/9811878/Signed-copy-of-Frankenstein-found-by-chance-sells-for-over-350000.html
> 
> [Read the full story here](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/booknews/9811878/Signed-copy-of-Frankenstein-found-by-chance-sells-for-over-350000.html) and then join me in this particular headcanon/bit of fluff. Hope you like it and if you do, come yell Good Omens at me on [Tumblr!](https://hedgehog-o-brien.tumblr.com)

‘Angel? You in there?’

‘In here!’

Crowley followed the cry through the maze of bookshelves towards the back room, where Aziraphale was poring over a leather bound volume that looked heavy enough to be used as a murder weapon. Altough judging from the very unpleasant diagrams scrawled all over the pages, it was quite possible that you did not even have to pick it up first.

And judging from the white curls sticking up in all directions, the _incredibly_ unnecessary rimmed spectacles and the congealed cup of cocoa, Aziraphale had been studying those diagrams for a while. Crowley could feel a faint and annoyingly fond smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and sternly told it to go away.

Not that that was any use. That kind of fond mouth-corner-twitching had become increasingly harder to suppress. And Crowley knew why, was very well aware of _why,_ but that did not mean he was any less annoyed by it.

‘Doing some light reading?’ Crowley drawled, leaning against the doorway while taking care to hide the brown paper bag he was holding. ‘Didn’t think medieval anatomy was your thing.’

‘I’ll have you know that Vesalius’ _De humani corporis fabrica_ is _fascinating_ and even second editions are incredibly hard to come by,’ Aziraphale answered with that gentle, good-natured smile that never failed to make Crowley feel suspiciously warm inside. ‘I picked it up yesterday at an auction. Private collector, passed away, sole heir either did not care or did not know what to do with it and just sold the whole lot off,’ he finished with something that was as close to unholy glee as an angel of Heaven could get.

‘And you only picked up the one book?’ Crowley asked, a teasing smile on his face (teasing was not fond. He kept telling himself that.) ‘Such self-restraint, angel.’

Aziraphale shrugged with studied casualness. ‘Well, perhaps I picked up a small, _trifling_ volume or two, nothing too self-indulgent. You know. Purely out of professional…’

Crowley nodded at a pile of cracked brown and yellow spines stacked up in the corner of the room and grinned. ‘Those one or two trifling volumes, you mean?’

For a moment Aziraphale flustered, his face going a lovely shade of pink, but then his jaw set and _there_ was the core of steel Crowley knew and [redacted]. ‘Alright, alright, yes. Are you about to lecture me on the sin of indulgence? Because I already got that lecture last century from Gabriel and let me tell you…’

Crowley held up a placating hand. ‘Angel, shhh. Spare me.’

Aziraphale obediently shut up. But he was still smiling, blue eyes twinkling up at Crowley in a way that made the demon very glad he had not taken off his sunglasses yet.

He coughed, in valiant effort to break the way too comfortable silence. ‘As it happened,’ he said, bringing the paper around and presenting it to the angel with a flourish, ‘I have done some antique book shopping myself. You know how it goes, you’re looking for one very specific thing and you come home with something completely different and well, I _was_ looking for the _Malleus Maleficarum_ but I thought you ah. Might like this.’

Giving himself a mental pat on the back for not rambling (well, not too much anyway) and only stammering once, he handed the bag to Aziraphale, who took it gingerly, looking at Crowley with a shrewdness that he did not like one bit.

‘And what exactly is the occasion, my dear?’ Aziraphale asked. He took the bag to the table, gently setting Vesalius aside, and started unwrapping.

Crowley shrugged. And faltered, because while he had planned this particular present perfectly, he had _not_ thought of an excuse to give along with it. It had been a pure Pavlovian response: see something the angel likes > buy the thing the angel likes > give the angel the thing the angel likes > happy angel.

Fortunately, he did not have to rack his brain for long. Aziraphale had removed the paper and was now holding a small volume up to the light of his reading lamp, inspecting it over his ridiculous spectacles. ‘Is this…’

‘ _Frankenstein, or: the modern Prometheus,’_ Crowley supplied helpfully. ‘Mary Shelly. And before you ask, _yes_ it’s a first edition.’

Aziraphale looked up, giving Crowley a surprised but beatific smile. ‘ _Thank you,_ my dear. My, that _is_ a lucky find.’

Crowley gave up. He had been fighting the good fight, keeping up his stoic appearance for as long as he could, but he knew to acknowledge defeat when it was smiling at him like that.

He took off his sunglasses. ‘Open it up,’ he said softly. ‘There’s an inscription.’

Aziraphale frowned and turned back to the book, setting it down on the desk and carefully opening it up, so as not to crack the brittle spine. ‘Ah yes, I see. _To…_ oh. Oh my. _’_

Crowley remained quiet as the angel processed the six words inscribed in fading ink on the title page.

‘Oh my,’ Aziraphale muttered again. And then: ‘Oh _my.’_

‘You’re not getting stuck, are you, angel?’

‘ _Oh my.’_

Crowley rolled his eyes, although his fond smile was now firmly in place and was not planning on going anywhere for the rest of the day. ‘You’re welcome, I guess.’

‘Where on earth…’ You could have illuminated a small church with the beaming smile on Aziraphale’s face. ‘ _How_ on earth did you find this?’

‘Lucky find,’ Crowley drawled. Which, in a way, was true, if not entirely honest; he was conveniently foregoing to mention that this ‘lucky find’ included several days of online sleuthing, consulting three separate experts[1] to make sure it was the real deal and not a movie prop and, at the crux of it, a very complicated piece of digital miracle working to make sure several bank account numbers were displaying the right amount of zeroes, without any of those zeroes coming out of Crowley’s own accounts.

He was quite proud of that last part. Long live the age of digital and imaginary money.

‘Well I’ll be…’ Aziraphale started before he caught the raised eyebrow Crowley gave him. ‘Yes, alright. But really, Crowley.’

He got up and crossed over to where Crowley was standing, wrapping the demon up in a fierce hug that smelled of old books and spice. ‘ _Thank you.’_

‘Nothing at all, angel,’ Crowley muttered, surreptitiously burying his nose deep into the white curls and inhaling deeply. ‘Nothing at all.’

\---

‘Did you know them?’ Aziraphale asked later that night, after he had paid Crowley back for that wonderful gift with a spot of dinner at the Ritz. They were back at the bookshop now, indulging in a little after dinner drink, with Aziraphale sitting in his tartan arm chair while Crowley had draped himself over the worn leather sofa. ‘Mrs. Shelley and her friends, I mean? They, ah. They seemed to me like your kind of people. If you know what I mean.’

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh, angel. That’s just hurtful!’

‘Well, my apologies, but…’

‘I did know them, yes.’ Crowley paused and grinned. ‘Weird bunch, the lot of ‘em. But she was a right little spitfire. Never really understood what she was doing with that Percy bloke, but that’s humans for you.’

‘And…’ Aziraphale nodded to the desk, where the copy of _Frankenstein_ was still lying open. ‘Him too, then.’

‘Oh yes. Whoever did you think gave him and Polidori the notion of vampires in the first place?’

‘No.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘ _Never.’_

Crowley’s grin stretched so wide, it made Aziraphale worry the top of his head might fall of. ‘Angel, they were four highly strung and _very_ imaginative people, locked together in a dreary cabin in the middle of nowhere. I simply joined them at dinner one night, a tall, pale guy with flaming red hair and too-sharp teeth, who wore sunglasses at all hours of the day, and I let them… draw their own conclusions.’

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to burst out laughing, bending over double until he wheezed with it. ‘Oh, you _serpent!’_

Patiently waiting until the angel had his breath back, Crowley took another swig of wine. The Regency had been a fun time. Lots of extremely rich people being extremely bored and therefore extremely ready to do lots of extremely stupid things: he had earned over a dozen commendations in under two weeks, just from hanging around London at the start of the 1813 Season.

‘Well, thank you,’ Aziraphale said, finally wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘For that. And for the book. Again.’

\---

Back on the desk, illuminated only by Aziraphale antiquated desk lamp, Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein, or: the modern Prometheus_ still laid open, with the inscription carefully written oh so long ago:

_For Lord Byron, from the Author_

\---

Crowley raised his wine glass, giving Aziraphale his warmest smile yet. It was late anyway, and the lights were dimmed and the angel probably wouldn’t even notice, buzzed as he was on fancy food, wine and rare books. ‘As I said, angel. It’s nothing at all.’

1 Unbeknownst to Crowley, all three of which were the same guy. A former oil rig worker from Oklahoma with a penchant for art history, if by ‘penchant’ you meant ‘over a dozen publications under his belt and research offers from practically every top university in the world, including the Sorbonne’.  
However, he now mostly spent his days hunting out-of-control magical artefacts, talking to trees and chasing a certain Australian punk ass thief to get his wallet back. But that’s a whole other story.[return to text]


End file.
